'Time, We Both Know, Will Decay You'

An old friend, just months older than me, is taking longevity hard. We’re not that old – he just turned seventy-four, I’m still seventy-three – but he frets about decrepitude, pain and death. I remind him there’s an alternative to a long life but he sniffs away such a reminder as impertinent: “Not funny!” W.H. Auden wrote “Talking to Myself” (Epistle to a Godson, 1972) in April 1971, when my friend and I were freshmen roommates at the university. Auden dedicates the poem to his friend Dr. Oliver Sacks and addresses it to himself or rather his body, in the second person. The poet (b. 1907) would die just two years later but a lifetime of Benzedrine, alcohol and tobacco was already taking its toll. In the seventh of the poem’s fifteen stanzas, Auden writes: “Seldom have You been a bother. For many years You were, I admit, a martyr to horn-colic (it did no good to tell You – But I’m not in love!): How stoutly, though, You’ve repelled all germ invasions, But never chastised my tantrums…